clusterf*ck.

Feeling revolutionary? Out with the old? Kill the new. Kill ’em all, I say. We’re listening to our parents music and loving it more than ever, aren’t we? Fuck the Beatles. There’s nothing to call our own. I was going to say we’re in the 80s again but goddammit if this bullshit culture recycle hasn’t been going on for a hell of a lot longer than that. It’s enough to make me want to burn down my own house from the inside after locking all the doors.

This brain’s a-buzzin’ with activity and yet there’s such vacuity hanging in the air that I’m not aure where any of it’s coming from. Less sure where it’s all going.

I’ve tried to stay young since I became aware of the fact that I am indeed getting older. Slay me. I carry my membership card to prove I’m still one of the kids; hopeless and lost and shaking with anticipation over how it could get infinitely better or worse at any given second. Little blue’s got the meanest reds.

I hear sickness’ birdsong. Hacking through the air, raining phlegm and blood onto me from the skies. I want to stand out here and have a coversation that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. With you. We can do it. The thing is, though, that we don’t have much time. Don’t leave anything unsaid. Nothing matters once you’re dead.

Or so I’m told.